Manic
by queerpoet
Summary: Luke struggles with bipolar disorder.
1. Chapter 1

My head aches, but you are there.

Holding me up, you soothe my pain away.

Wake up, wake me up now.

The dreams are pinpricks on my mind, stabbing each and every crevice.

I hear you. I see you. You are everywhere.

I remember now.

I remember quitting my job. Jumping in my car, and driving to the grocery store.

Picking up three bottles of oranges, three ketchups, and an onion.

I remember waking.

Briefly, the shadow of an imprint.

Clinging to the shopping cart, and circling the parking lot for over an hour, before a store employee comes out and helps me find the car.

I remember.

Small lines crack on your face.

You look so much older.

It scares me for a minute, but I bury it without a second thought.

I put the food away, and turn to face you.

I can feel the dumb grin breaking on my face.

I love you so much right now.

I go to you, hug you close.

But something's wrong.

You're trembling.

Your breath comes too fast against my neck.

I step back, and find your face.

A ruin.

You're barely thirty, but your eyes are so much older.

Your finger tracks slowly down my face.

Darting back and forth and quickly, you regard me, an old man watching a loved one die.

"Luke." you murmur.

Slow tears track down your face.

You bite your lip.

I blink and break away from you.

You make me nervous.

"Luke," you say again.

You follow me. Back me against the kitchen counter.

There is nothing romantic in this embrace.

"You're scaring me." you whisper. "Baby, you're scaring me."

"What are you talking about?" I reply. "I don't understand."

"You're not eating. You grab catnaps but you don't actually sleep. Yesterday you -"

You look down, quick. Your hands clench into fists and unclench.

"You called me a faggot, then kept on talking like nothing happened. You didn't even remember."

I smile, smirk. In my head I'm flying. There's a novel I always wanted to write. I think I will write it now.

You watch me. You see me fade.  
"Luke, I called the hospital. You're the right age for it. I wasn't sure, but you just disappeared for hours. You're cycling. Rapid thoughts, then spiraling sadness. Luke you're -"

"I need to take a trip." I interrupt. "I need to see my dad. Help me pack."

I slide away from him, and enter our room.

I feel him following me.

He grabs my wrist, and gently guides me towards me.

"We're not going to your dad. We're going to the hospital. Do you trust me?"

He scares me. Why is he fucking scaring me?

My tongue feels heavy, my brain is floating above my body.

I hold him in me, feel the pressure of his warm hand on my wrist.

"Yes, Reid. I trust you."

After that, darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Darkness fades into twilight, and I'm in an unfamiliar room.

My vision recedes and I see you again.

Trying to save me.

Always trying to save me.

Your eyes bore into and you hold me close the first night, almost hard enough to hurt.

When the day breaks, you are gone.

Instead, doctors.

Pills. A different regimen for every day.

The doctors, invading my room. Regarding me like a science experiment.

I remember sleeping, too much.

Drinking water like I hadn't had any in days.

Which, I suppose, I hadn't.

I held you, but you weren't real.

You are never real.

The second day, after I don't sleep, they give me potassium pills. They tell me my level is dangerously low.

I take them, without question.

I am so tired.

The first day I'm allowed to make a call, I call you. My speech is slurred from the medication, and I force the words out through a thick, sluggish tongue.

You don't say anything at first, but I can hear your breathing, solid and reassuring.

Finally, you murmur, "I love you, Luke. I need you to hold onto that."

I'm trying, Reid.

You visit me everyday, but I'm still floating. My feet ache on the thin, hard carpet; they took away my shoes because of the laces.

You visit everyday, but you don't notice my feet, wearing only socks, until I wince sitting down.

I pace up and down the halls a hundred times, but you don't know that.

I had a panic attack last night, and you didn't know that.

_"I can't feel my legs." I whimper. "I can't feel my legs."_

_ But the nurse is there, a calming, kind force. She pinches my big toe, and then I feel my feet again._

_ But I can't breathe._

_ The weight of too many thoughts is unrelenting._

_ So tired._

_ So wired._

You watch me sit down, and your eyes are suddenly wide.

"Jesus, your shoes."

Your eyes are slits, and then you are crushing me.

Your body shakes with the weight of unshed tears.

"I'm so fucking sorry, Luke. I'm so sorry. I'll bring some tomorrow. I didn't even think. I'm so sorry."

When you do, for a brief moment, my feet are solid on the ground.

They tell me the medication is working, that I need to give it more time.

I'm eating again, three solid meals.

My sleep is more steady.

I can feel my head breaking above the waves, until.

I awaken late one night, and you're dead.

A train, something about delivering a heart. The story is so ridiculous, I immediately stop listening to the doctor.

I huddle in the corner of my room, hugging myself.

I rock back and forth.

You're not dead.

It's just a story.

It's just my story.

It's just my -

I hear whispers outside my room.

"What do you mean, the meds aren't working? You said he was getting better - you said -"

"He is, Dr. Oliver. This isn't an exact science. It's a minor relapse, that's all. Give it a few more days and he will -"

"A minor relapse? He thinks I'm -"

The door slam is too loud. I flinch and try to cuddle the wall. It is cold and unyielding.

But.

You find me.

You kneel in front of me. You grab my shoulders. Your fingers skirt up to grip my face.

"Not real." I mutter. "You're not real."

"Look at me." you say. "Please."

You force my eyes up, and I see your blue orbs, steady like the ocean.

I choke on my breath. I feel the tears congeal.

"R-reid?"

Your face breaks, and a weary smile crosses your mouth, before vanishing like it was never there at all.

"Yes, babe." You lean forward, and kiss my forehead with a loud, solid smack.

"I just wanna go home."

Tentatively, my hands loosely wrap around your waist.

"Soon." you reply. "Soon. I promise."


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, a breath.

I wake up, holding.

And I keep holding.

For the first time in two weeks, my head is clearing.

I'm starving.

I attend therapy, and bounce on the heels of my feet, quietly happy.

But not manic.

The worst has passed.

Sometimes, empty spaces invade, and I flash back to when I thought you were dead. Screaming for hours at door I thought was escape, when actually it was just a door.

They move me to another ward, where the hot water in the shower is immediately hot. The other ward was a slow trickle of cold, before becoming tepid lukewarm water. The bathroom resembled something out of a horror movie.

I've never been happier to get different living arrangements.

I receive a private room.

I don't even question this courtesy; I simply revel in it.

I wake up, holding.

I take my medication, and I eat the food with quiet relish.

For the first time in weeks, I fully take in my surroundings.

This is a private hospital, the best in the city, and yet everyone is going through their own private hell.

I go back to my room, and stare at myself in the mirror. I try to find the carefree happy man I was before everything started, but he's taking a vacation.

In his place is an exhausted, too thin, stranger.

No. I look closer.

I'm still here.

I'm still me. I can see glimpses of that man. I just need to be patient.

One evening, panic.

Blind panic, gripping my chest like spikes.

It's past time for my medication, and I need it. I need it now.

They call you; they have no other choice. I begin screaming at the nurse; my palms prickle with sweat.

You hold me.

You grip my shoulders, and instruct me to breathe slowly, in and out.

I follow you, and your thumb darts out to wipe away the moisture on my cheek.

"You're doing better, Luke," you say, but your voice still cracks with strain. "You're doing so much better. They say you can go home soon."

"Home, " I repeat softly. "That would be nice."

You hand me a disposable cup, containing five nondescript pills.

Your fingers slip and grasp my wrist, gently.

"I know you're scared, Luke. And anxious. But I promise you, the medication is working. I know it's not my specialty, but I'm talking to the psychiatrist everyday. They just have you on a high dosage now, because the episode was so -" His voice cracks into shards. "So severe. But once you're out, they're hopeful they can reduce the dose."

You tilt, and kiss me hard, like you can't help yourself.

"I found you the best psychiatrist in the state." you say softly. "We're gonna beat this thing. Together."

My lips remember your touch, and I crave more. But I feel the pulse inside my head. It is my head now, not the violent stranger who invaded my body for two weeks, but my grip on sanity is precarious and slippery. So instead I just nod and hug you, long and slow.

It's enough for now. It keeps me anchored.


	4. Chapter 4

Two weeks in, I'm released.

I clutch my discharge papers, and memorize the diagnosis.

"Bipolar I; mania with psychotic features."

Six little words, to turn my entire universe completely inside out.

You guide me to the car; your touch is warm and reassuring.

I am in a fog; despite your protests, they haven't yet lowered my medication.

I hardly feel anything.

I can buckle the seatbelt, then my hand rests slack on the seat.

I'm floating.

I'm here, but it's fuzzy and diffuse.

You grasp my knee, your head darts forward to kiss my temple, so quick I barely feel it.

"Stay with me, Luke," you say, hard and demanding. "Stay with me."

We don't go home.

You take me to another doctor, who exhaustively questions my symptoms, my medical history.

He makes me go over the manic episode in detail, then finally pauses and regards with a scientist's detached gaze.

"This is a lifelong, chronic condition, Luke. There is no cure. But the symptoms can be managed."

The fog briefly recedes, and my voice comes out, strong yet fearful.

"I feel numb. I think I need to reduce my medication. I'm sleeping twelve hours a day, and I don't care about anything.

"I want to feel again."

The doctor gazes at me speculatively.

He nods once, and instructs me how to lower the dosage safely. How to cut the pills into sections, and slowly reduce the dosage from 1200 milligrams to 900.

I leave his office, feeling completely overwhelmed.

I don't remember seeing you in the waiting room, but I blink, and your hand is holding mine in the car ride home.

My ballast, my anchor.

I hold on for dear life, hard enough to bruise, but you don't say anything at all. You just squeeze back.

I stare straight forward, and blink back the sudden surge of tears.

"What happens now?" I say, and I hate the weakness in my voice. I sound like a small child.

You pull over, and your eyes shimmer. I hate making you cry. I never wanted that.

_I will never scare you again. _I vow.

And just like that, it's all so simple.

Everything clears. I have a mood disorder. To stay myself, I have to take medication. To keep from hurting you, I have to take medication.

And so I will.

Your hand, my ballast, swerves. I watch you place it in your lap. You stare at it, and back up at me.

"Please, Luke." you say softly, and the moisture eases down your cheeks.

The tremor begins in your hand, before reaching your shoulders. Suddenly before you can breathe, you're trembling against the seatbelt.

You can't stop it.

But I can.

This is familiar territory.

My hands don't shake, and I scoot out of my seat to hold you.

And I will keep holding you.

I run my hands down your back, firm and steady.

"I love you," I murmur. I kiss your hair, punctuating each kiss with the declaration.

"I love you." Your head. 

"I love you." Your eyes.

"I love you."

Finally, your mouth.

Still, you tremble against my lips.

Your hands grip my hair and pull, hard.

"I can't -" you whisper. You're out of breath, as though you've been running a long distance. And you have.

"Luke, I can't. I can't ever see you like that again. I can't live through it again. I know it's selfish; I know you're recovering, but I can't -"

The words sputter and die on your throat.

"You won't have to."

I'm holding you, now.

I hold your eyes for what feels like forever, long enough for you to see me.

Even through the fog, you see me.

With both my hands, I wipe your tears free with your thumbs. And then I hold them there, gently, against your cheeks.

"I won't ever get this sick again." I promise. "Not only for you, but for me. I don't ever want to be a stranger to myself. I will do whatever the doctor tells me, but Reid -"

I gulp, suddenly, against the clutch of emotion.

"I was lost, but you found me. You kept on finding me. And I can never -"

My heart seizes, and I kiss you. My mouth parts for more entry, and I feel your hiss against my teeth.

"I will never do that to you again. It was like being a prisoner in my own body. Like someone invaded me, and went on a spree."

My hands are lost, and fumble for purchase to finally land on your shoulders.

"I didn't believe you were real." I admit, too soft. "When it first started, I didn't believe anything was real. The thoughts coursing through my head - they were too much for me. The first night, I kept waiting for you to rescue me, but you weren't there.

I look up, hold your gaze because I know what I just did.

"Then you were."

You swallow quickly. Your breath against my cheeks feels like homecoming.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I wasn't there."

I shake my head fast, and my hands bunch in your hips.

"Stop it. You were there. I held onto you, when all my brain wanted was to swallow me whole."

Memory convulses, and I ride the wave with trepidation.

_It's early days, and I call you at work._

_You're in a surgery, but my brain doesn't register this distinction._

_I begin babbling, and soon the words are a frantic cascade, and I don't even remember what I said._

_My breaths are tight and unsteady._

_All I hear is silence._

_I wait, for the length of three beats._

_All you say is a long drawn out, "O-okay."_

_That's when part of me knew something was wrong._

_But I buried those doubts, and let the madness grip me and spit me out, broken and bloodied. Betrayed by my own mind._

"No." I hear. "No, don't. Stay here with me, Luke. I've got you."

My fingers tingle, when yours interlock and keep mine warm.

Your breath is fast, pulsing.

"I've got you."

I exhale, and lean against the warmth of your chest.

I listen to your heartbeat.

For the space of three beats.

"Take me home." and I'm not even sure I said it out loud.

But I feel your nod, and I relax instinctively.

You gently ease me back into the passenger seat, and I close my eyes.

"We're both going home, Luke." your voice passes like waves.

Home.

My breath comes easy, and I can finally rest.

We will face whatever comes.

Together.


End file.
